Time is on My Side
by Alexic
Summary: A look at Neal's experience after Kate's death, beginning with his time back in prison.
1. Abandon All Hope

"You were the only one who could convince me to come back." Neal felt wetness on his cheeks. He turned away from his friend, his brother, his mentor, walking towards his new life, to Kate, to everything he'd worked so hard for.

He paused a moment, turning. "Peter–"

There was pressure at his back, and heat – blistering heat. He was dead; he was dying; he _should_ be dead... he was alive.

* * *

Neal didn't remember anything that happened afterwards. There wasn't anything that happened afterwards; the world had ended, and… that was the end of it.

No, the world had frozen. Nothing had happened afterwards because time stood still… the same moment was still going on. The horror was still there, the guilt, the shock, the grief. And the heat; there was a searing, blistering heat that was scorching across his skin. Most nights he'd lay awake shivering – sure that he was burning but unable to stop the chills; sure that he would die in the flames.

And he was grateful for that. Terrified, but grateful. Because if he died he could be with her again. He could leave everything else behind and it would be just the two of them, like he had promised.

Above and beyond anything else, Neal Caffrey wished that he was dead.

* * *

Neal had once heard that losing someone you loved was like dying, that you couldn't breathe for the pain of it. He'd discovered that this was completely wrong. Losing someone you loved was living. It was taking another breath and knowing that each breath pulled you farther away from that someone, because you were breathing and they were not. It wasn't hard to breathe; It was painfully easy, natural. It felt wrong that he should be breathing, and Kate – _Kate_, who had loved the air itself – should not.

"_Have you ever stopped and thought about how nice it is to breathe?"_

"_No. Not really."_

"_You should. It's amazing. It makes you feel simple again; small, like a child. Back when everything was amazing and wonderful and all anyone wanted to know was '__Why? Why? Why?' "_

" '_Why' what?"_

"_You know; the things every kid wants to know. Why is the sky blue? Why does it rain? Why does Santa bother with all those presents every year? Why do_ I_ have to do the dishes?"_

_Neal laughed, but Kate looked over at him seriously, "Why do you love me?"_

Neal wanted to know why. Why? Why? Why? And he did feel small again, like a child. He felt small and alone and helpless and hopeless.

And more than anything else, he wanted to die.

* * *

"Bon appétit!" Neal watched Kate smile, feeling almost numb, though he wasn't sure why. She seemed so happy to be eating cold pizza and drinking cheap, flavorless wine. He knew he should be happy, just to be beside her, if nothing else. "Neal!" Kate said, sounding annoyed, and it jarred him out of his numbness. "Neal!"

There were fingers snapping in his face, and then Neal looked down at his metal tray, a heap of pasty noodles piled on top. The lady who had ladled out the mush looked concerned, and he realized she was the one who'd snapped in his face. He'd been spacing again, thinking about Kate.

"Thanks."

He moved away quickly, before she could react, the numbness creeping back over him.

* * *

Sometimes Neal felt ashamed of his breath itself. He'd think about Kate, about her face, her laugh, her eyes, her lips. He'd think about how she was gone; he would never see her again. She would never breathe again.

And he would hold his breath. He would go as long as he could, would hold it with a sort of determined rage that could only come from self-loathing. He would lay down on his bed, holding his breath until his head hurt. Until his chest ached and the world spun. He would hold it in until his vision blurred and the edges went black, or red. And when he couldn't hold it anymore, no matter how hard he tried, he wouldn't allow himself to gasp for that air. The precious air – the breath that Kate would never breathe again. He would breathe in evenly, denying his starved lungs the immediate relief they craved. He would hold onto the tangible pain, that concrete burning in his lungs instead of on his skin, his face. A burning that didn't wake him up at night, trembling and shaking and shivering so hard he shook the frame of his bed.

Neal was ashamed that he was still alive.

* * *

When they went out into the prison yard, most people got exercise. They ran off some steam. Moved around a little, for just a little while.

Neal would go to stand at the edge of the fence, and he would close his eyes, and he wouldn't move a single muscle until they were called to go back in. He would stand completely still, often with the wind caressing his face. His eyes carefully closed, never moving even behind his eyelids, he would construct an image of where he was, where he was standing; of Kate beside him.

They were on the balcony in June's house, staring out over the cityscape. They were in Thursday, hiding out together, and doing their best to avoid driving Mozzie _completely_ insane. Sometimes he would relive memories, change them just slightly. He didn't get irritated or impatient, and he said what he had wanted to say. Most of the time though, he just made everything up. They were in a crappy apartment, or at the top of a grassy hill, or in a house all their own. It didn't really matter where… because, most importantly, they were together.

Most importantly, he wasn't alone.

* * *

"She's not dead."

He said it again and again, over and over to himself.

Sometimes he said it just to hear the sound of his own voice, hoarse from going unused. Sometimes he said it to the cold prison cell, defiantly. Sometimes he said it to the empty darkness as he lay awake, desperately. Sometimes he said it to his reflection, bitterly. A couple of times, when he had first come back, the inmates who'd been around long enough to remember him would remark on his presence, and he would say it to them, matter-of-factly. Soon they stopped bothering. Sometimes he said it in the early morning, half-delirious with remnants of fever-dreams, and he said it as if he believed it.

He needed to believe it – if he didn't, then what was there to live for?

"She's not dead."

* * *

Neal was holding Kate tightly, clutching her into his side. "Neal," she said; annoyed, exasperated, but unendingly patient. "I'm _fine_."

"I know," he said softly, not relaxing his hold on her. "I know. Just... give me a minute."

She paused a moment, then pulled herself into his side. "Fine," she shrugged, smiling. "Take as long as you want." She laid her head on his shoulder and molded herself to the contours of his body. His hands relaxed so that he wasn't gripping her so tightly, but he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. "Don't ever let me go, Neal," Kate said softly, a whisper.

"I promise." His voice cracked.

Kate was shaking - he was shaking - someone was shaking him. He jolted awake, except that he couldn't have been asleep, because his eyes were open. Kate was gone; the hands shaking him were rough, calloused. There was the guard, the nurse, the warden... and the other inmates were staring at him strangely.

He was alone.

* * *

Neal was ashamed.

Ashamed that he hadn't been killed in the plane's explosion. In place of Kate, or side-by-side with her, it didn't really matter. Ashamed that he was too cowardly to kill himself now, to finish it and be with her again. He'd always been a coward; he'd always run away. It was what he knew best. This shouldn't be so hard – it was the ultimate escape; escape from life itself.

Neal was afraid, and ashamed that he was still alive.

* * *

Neal was crying, and he didn't know why. Kate held him close, his head tucked under her chin. She stroked his back gently, and she didn't hush him or tell him that it would be okay. She simply held him. She pressed a tender kiss to his head and he felt a soft, almost inaudible, strangled sob escape his lips. Her closeness was an intense physical pain, an ache. Everywhere she touched, everywhere she ran her fingers across his skin – his face, his back, his chest, trying to comfort him – her fingers left trails of fire. He was burning everywhere she touched him, but he couldn't let her go.

She pulled back, looking at him cautiously, and then she pressed a kiss to his lips. The pain was so intense it was exquisite. He couldn't speak, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't pull back. Finally she let him go. He closed his eyes tightly, his lips opening in a silent scream, no air even escaping his lungs. When he opened his eyes again, he was lying in his bunk, in the prison cell. He was alone.

Neal was crying, and he knew exactly why. He was burning, shivering so hard that his teeth were grinding together, so that a dull, rhythmic pounding started up against the inside of his skull. He turned to face the cold metal wall of his cell, and there was no one there to hold him.

* * *

Neal wished he had something of hers. Something he could clutch close to him when he felt most alone. The bottle, or the necklace, or even one of her notes; it didn't really matter what. Mostly, he just wished that she was here, that she was alive.

But it was easier to think about those small things than it was to think about her. Because when he thought about her, about his need to have her by his side – unless it was one of those strangely peaceful moments in the jail yard – it made him crazy, insane almost. It made him ready to die, even eager. It made him afraid of himself. He would feel an almost uncontrollable urge to rant and rage; to scream. To have someone, _anyone_, hear him. But even that wouldn't be enough, he knew. What he needed was for Kate to hear him, for _Kate_ to be there.

And that was impossible.

* * *

_I love you_. Three simple words. Kate had made him promise that he would only ever say them when he really meant them. No saying it when they were exhausted or half-hearted. No saying it casually, or begrudgingly, or so often that it became commonplace. When they said it, they meant it. _I love you._ Kate always said it fervently, or earnestly, and honestly. She put her whole heart into those words, and so did he. He had loved her; he _still_ loved her. He would have done anything for her – he had tried to.

His cheeks were wet, the wetness gently warm. "I love you." He said it fervently, honestly... but quietly. It was a whisper into the empty dark of his cell that would never travel farther than his own ears.

* * *

**I hope you liked it, and I don't know if I should continue... if I did I'd probably go into how he pulls himself together. Reviews are like chocolate cakes and world domination. *hint hint***


	2. Best Served Cold

**Wow. Okay, I only got a few reviews, but they made my day. Possibly my week. Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed – it's always good to know that enough people enjoyed it that continuing is worth my while.**

**That being said, I'd also like to clarify that I wasn't being falsely modest or fishing for complements when I asked if I should continue; through the course of learning to write, I've written some fairly worthless junk. And, though reassurance is nice, so is a blaring five-in-the-morning wake-up call.**

* * *

Thirty-four.

It had been thirty-four days since Kate's death, and Neal knew he should stop counting. When would he finally go insane; day eighty-seven? Day four hundred and sixty-five? Day two thousand seven hundred and ninety-three? With every day he counted, he was clinging to the hope that Kate would be found, still alive, even if she had been hurt by the explosion. That he would wake up to find that it had all been a dream. That his life would go back to the way it was supposed to be. That he could just... be happy again.

That wasn't just pointless; it was counter-productive.

* * *

"I'll have to think about it," Neal said softly. He understood why Peter would be confused at his hesitation; he wouldn't see any other option. Neal, on the other hand, wasn't even sure if he wanted to leave. He had only regretted being put in prison because of Kate. He only ran from prison for Kate. Now she was gone, and it didn't matter anymore. At least in prison he could spend all of his time grieving, mourning; he never had to put on a good face, and there was never anything else to distract him.

Kate was dead. It didn't matter where Neal was, because he wasn't with her and he never would be with her again.

* * *

_Neal turned back, one last time. "Peter–"_

_There was an immense heat, and a hard pressure at his back, throwing him off of his feet. He turned back to the smoking, burning wreckage and started to run forward, but he was moving impossibly slow, and his legs felt like lead. The plane wasn't getting any closer, and Peter was holding him back, pushing him farther away – only it wasn't Peter; it was Fowler, and he was laughing._

Neal sat up into the dark of his prison cell, breathing hard. His sheet was damp with a cold sweat, and he peeled it back with trembling hands, staring into the darkness as if he expected Fowler to be sitting there, gloating. He swallowed hard and ran a hand through his hair with a shaky breath, moving so that he could sit with his back to the wall. He sat motionless for what felt like hours, closing his eyes and trying not to remember. He sat there until the lights came on and the guards started their rounds. But for the first time, when he tried to _not_ think about the plane exploding, he ended up thinking less about Kate, and more about her murderer.

* * *

The funny thing about anger, about hatred, is that even though they strike out against other people, they are a kind of defense. They are terrible, they are destructive, they are all-encompassing, they are safe. It's often disturbingly easy to stop trusting someone, or to let go of happiness. But anger, betrayal, distrust, they protect you from having to care about others; from the hurt that often follows. When they're strong enough they even protect you from having to think. They hurt, and they damage, and they destroy, but people keep clinging to them because they keep our hearts hidden; safe.

Anger is the coward's way out.

* * *

_"Neal," Kate said sharply. "What are you doing?"_

_Neal's heart skipped a beat; he couldn't fully grasp what he was hearing. "What – how did you – I – why didn't you**–**" Neal stuttered, tripping over his own words. "You're alive?"_

_"No, Neal!" He couldn't understand why she was so upset, or what she was saying._

_"What? Kate, what do you mean? What's wrong; what did I do?"_

_She turned towards him, her eyes dark and angry. "You let him kill me."_

_Neal felt cold for the first time since before the explosion. It was a mind-numbing cold, the kind that made your bones ache. "Who, Kate? Who killed you?"_

_"Of course you don't know." She clenched her jaw, her eyes blazing. "Neal, you act like you don't even care. You haven't done _anything_ to find out who did it."_

_"Kate**–**"_

_"Shut up, Neal!" her voice rose in volume and pitch. "I thought you loved me!" She was crying, her tears hot and angry. She stood up and did something she'd never done before **– **she raised her hand, palm-open, as if to slap him, and then she punched him hard, catching him on the jaw._

Neal jolted awake into the dark, unable to see anything in the complete blackness. He had no idea what time it was, but he was cold. It was a strange feeling; he hadn't been cold in a long time. As he curled up and pulled his sheets tight around him he stared with wide, unseeing eyes into the dark of the cell. His dream had been absurd. He knew, deep down in a place he preferred to ignore, that if Kate could talk to him now she probably _would_ punch him – or at least slap him – but she would tell him to get over himself. To move on.

But it didn't matter, because she _couldn't _talk to him now. And he couldn't move on.

* * *

It wasn't raining hard enough for the wardens to keep them inside, but it was raining hard enough that after fifteen minutes of standing completely motionless in front of the fence, Neal was soaked through to the bone. The sharp cold of the rain was surprising; he still wasn't used to being cold after living for so long with that unnatural warmth. Sometimes, the weather contradicted his mood. Often, it agreed with his mood. But right now, the weather decided his mood for him; somber. He didn't feel any of the anger or resentment towards people who were happy. Instead, he just felt bitter – numb to the unfathomable depths of his usual grief.

Neal would never join the PTA for his 2.5 kids, and Kate would never be a soccer mom. He would never have a house with a white picket fense or a kitchen with matching utensils. He would never get to see Kate running down the isle. He would never get to see her again at all, and he wasn't sure if the wetness on his face was only rain.

It wasn't raining hard enough for the wardens to keep them inside, but it was raining hard enough that Neal's entire body was numb to the cold.

* * *

Time passed. Elizabeth visited a couple of times, surprising Neal, and Peter dropped in sporadically. Mozzy, posing as Neal's lawyer, visited regularly. When Elizabeth came, she just tried to make him happy, and he tried to make her think that she was making him happy. She would smile and joke and and they would laugh and talk about nothing in particular, or everything at once. Peter always tried to get him to agree to their old deal. Mozzy helped him design different ways to get out that _didn't _put him under the FBI's thumb, and he also told Neal everything he knew about the explosion, though warily, as if he was worried about Neal's reactions.

There was a very real basis for Mozzy's worry. They didn't know much about what had happened, or how, or why. Neal assumed that it had something to do with Fowler, but Mozzy was more reluctant to point the blame, even at a suit. He was right to do that, too; once Mozzy decided who he thought it was, it might as well be set in stone for Neal.

* * *

There was a slow, festering anger growing inside of Neal; an anger so deep and bitter that it had been drowned in his despair, but it surfaced the more he thought about Kate's murderer. The heat on his skin **– **the vivid recurring sensation of the explosion at his back **–** was gradually replaced by a cold inner fire. A frigid anger than started somewhere in his heart and spread out to his toes, to his fingertips, to the ends of his hair. It was furious; it was icy; it was not what Kate would have wanted.

And it felt good.

* * *

Kate didn't make promises very often, and she had actually asked that Neal wouldn't, either. To Kate, a promise was sacred, and she never made a promise she couldn't keep. She had once told him that she'd rather be worried about his commitments than be stuck with a broken heart. Mark Twain once said, "Better a broken promise than none at all." In a rare and surprising moment of profanity, Kate had said that was bullshit. They were careful with their promises, so each promise meant something. Each promise was actually something you could count on.

Kate and Neal didn't make promises very often, but in the dark of his cell, after he'd woken up from another nightmare about her death, Neal gave her a final promise. "I promise you," he said quietly, to the empty darkness. "I will find out who killed you, Kate. And I will make them pay."

* * *

Thanks to Kate, Neal was well versed in the classics of revenge; Hamlet, Othello, The Scarlet Letter, The Oresteia - they were all tragedies. He knew, and never denied, that revenge had never led to Happily Ever-After. It couldn't. But he had already lost that. He wasn't asking to be happy or even to get away with it - he wasn't even asking for it to be justified. He was just looking for revenge. Plain and simple. Fire and ice.

* * *

When Neal ran from prison, he did it for Kate. He kept himself going, kept himself functioning and breathing, so that he could find her. Now that she was dead, he would continue on for her this one last time.

* * *

"I'll do it," Neal said quickly.

It had been almost three months since Kate was killed, and Peter was visiting. He'd stopped asking for Neal to come back to the bureau a long time ago, and now he just visited, his expression always worried and concerned. _As he should be_, Neal thought silently, but he couldn't let Peter know the real reason that he was finally accepting. He couldn't reveal just how dark his thoughts had been recently.

"What?" Neal had barely even spoken during Peter's past visits, and the agent seemed taken aback at the abrupt statement.

"I'll come with you; make the deal again **–** put the anklet back on. I just want to get out of here." _I just want to find Kate's murderer._

* * *

Neal was free, the sun was brushing across his face, and there was no chill wind to cool him; there were no clouds in the sky, and he should have been warm. He wasn't shivering or shaking the way he had when he thought that he was burning, but he felt cold. He was angry, he was furious - but it wasn't a hot, emotional, irrational anger. It wasn't the kind of anger that blinded him to everything else in the world and made him clumsy and obsessed. It was a frigid anger, and it made him colder, more calculating, more patient, less likely to be found out, more likely to succeed.

* * *

Kate had always loved the classics, and with those went proverbs; she had one for every situation, even though she didn't usually say them out loud. He'd known her long enough that he'd often been able to guess which one she was thinking of. He didn't know which one she would be thinking of now, but he didn't care. He had one of his own;

_Revenge is a dish best served cold._

* * *

**Review! Please? Reviewers get... my everlasting gratitude? And a new chapter... maybe ((meaning, _if_ I can figure out what to write)). And they get that warm fuzzy feeling from knowing that they just made someone _else's _day really good. Namely me.**

**All joking aside, I really would like to know other people's opinions on my story, even – especially ****–** if those opinions _aren't_ good, or at the very least are CONSTRUCTIVELY critical.


	3. The Song Remains the Same

**As a side note, the chapter name was not meant as a reference to the lyrics, which don't really fit this story. I picked that title because it sounds cool, and it sound right for this, and – without the lyrics – **_**it **_**does fit this story.**

* * *

_This shaking keeps me steady. I should know._  
_What falls away is always. And is near._  
_I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow._  
_I learn by going where I have to go._

_- The Waking, by __Theodore Roethke_

* * *

As soon as he was out of prison, Neal hit the ground running. Apparently, rather than trying to give him even more time to recuperate, they'd decided to try to keep him busy; keep his mind off of everything. Neal was grateful; it made it easier to pretend that he was completely sane when he had something to focus on. If he really thought about Kate, thought about revenge, in front of them... he wasn't sure that he'd be able to hide it.

It didn't matter that he was an amazing liar, that he had pulled off cons no one would ever believe possible – he had never been able to lie to Kate, to lie about Kate.

Neal wasn't used to grief, at least not the kind that you saw in movies, or TV shows, or plays, or read about in books. He wasn't used to wallowing. He wasn't the kind of person who could beat his chest, or tear at his hair, or curse the world and everyone in it who was happy. Not only was that low drama, but he just wouldn't – he couldn't. And yet he had fallen back to this in prison, and it surprised him. It undermined him; it took away another core part of who he was, and Kate's death had already taken so much from him. He would not let himself wallow in despair anymore.

He overcompensated with the charm and humor that came naturally, to cover everything underneath. He didn't really understand how else to deal with it. The only way he understood life in general was to take action. It was why the idea of revenge, though it was dark and even more destructive than his grief, was what had pulled him back into himself. It was the reason he threw all of his energy into solving the new cases Peter presented to him. It was the reason that sitting around in prison with nothing to do but think had nearly destroyed him – twice.

He was a liar at heart, and the only way he knew to actually _deal _with pain was to distract himself from it. To do something about it, or force himself to forget that it was there. He was good at it... most of the time.

He rubbed his eyes wearily and reached for the newest case file.

* * *

_"You always tell me such beautiful lies."_

_"I've never lied to you, Kate."_

_"See? There you go again."_

_Neal turned away quickly, pressing his lips tightly together. If Kate had seen the moment of pain on his face, then she didn't ask._

* * *

Neal put aside a large sum of money that had a dye pack poorly hidden beneath the first bill and returned to grabbing more stacks of cash and throwing them into the briefcase. It had been so easy to get in here that it was almost pathetic; though he'd needed to do a little bit of ground-work first, he had been able to walk into the vault completely unhindered. Peter would be disappointed, but not unsurprised.

He was into a good rhythm before the briefcase was even a quarter of the way full, and he didn't even think about what he did; his movements were precise, almost mechanical. Automatic. Even if it wasn't his usual con it still came as naturally to him as breathing, as his heart beating; he didn't have to think about it to make it happen. His world had dissolved into that small room, and nothing else mattered. He opened his mouth – automatically – to tell Kate to hurry up with what she was doing, to come help him.

The words stuck in his throat, and he paused. His eyes were wild for a moment as he glanced around the room, taking in his surroundings - where he was, what he was going here. He grabbed another couple stacks of hundred-dollar bills and shoved them in the suitcase before stepping out of the vault without looking back.

* * *

"I hope you're not planning on walking with that." Peter said as Neal walked past with the large suitcase containing the large amount of stolen money.

Neal grimaced, turning back towards the fed. "There's no law against thinking about it."

"It's good to have you back." Peter was grinning widely, but Neal only smiled politely in response.

"It's good to be back."

* * *

"Neal?"

Neal blinked, looking over at Mozzy. He was holding the Bordeaux bottle cradled gently in his hands, and he wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been sitting on the couch like that - or when he'd even picked up the bottle and moved over here.

"Mozz?" Neal had trouble disguising the feverish tone in his voice. "Did you find anything?"

Mozzy frowned, "What? Do I have to have an excuse to drop in on a friend?" But his expression didn't quite match up with what he was saying; he was guarded, concerned. Neal didn't answer, but he looked down at the bottle in his hands so that Mozzy wouldn't see the gleam in his eyes. When had lying - keeping up a simple deception - become so hard? _When it started to involve Kate_, he answered himself bitterly. He heard his friend sigh, but he still didn't look up. "No, I haven't found anything, yet. But Neal–"

Neal looked up at the way Mozzy said his name, "What?" He voice was sharper, angrier than he intended it to be. Because he knew what was coming... that, and as ridiculous and unreasonable and selfish as it was, he _was _upset with Mozzy; that they still didn't have anything to go off of.

"Are you..." Mozzy seemed to be struggling with the word. "Okay?"

Neal didn't even flinch. And he didn't try to hide the ice in his voice when he said, "I'm fine, Mozzy." It was curt, cold. "Tell me when you've got something worth my time."

* * *

Neal set the card up so that he could see it, and started copying it across his sketchpad. _The Architect._He moved the pencil down the length of the 'A', sketching in the gaps. _Keep busy, keep moving_. It was his mantra; he thought it over and over to keep himself functioning.

There was a heat flash that traveled through him, a vivid memory of fire and pain. He wasn't constantly burning, the way he had been right after her death, but the heat would roll over him for a moment, leaving him helpless. This wasn't the first time it had happened.

His hand was shaking, and he couldn't control it, he couldn't hold on to his pen. It fell to the paper, and he brought his hands up to his face, clasping them in front of his lips and trying to hold them steady. He took a couple of deep breaths and picked up the pen again, slowly, as if it, too, might burn up before his eyes. He tapped the pen against the paper softly, steadily, nodding his head at the same time, trying to get back into his natural rhythm. Trying to force the cold hatred back into his veins, in place of the burning fear.

_Keep busy, keep moving._

He held the pencil poised above the paper, trying not to think about Kate leaning over his shoulder, pretending to have any kind of advice and criticism to offer for his forgery.

* * *

"I will find out who killed you, Kate," he said softly to himself. "I promise."

He repeated his promise first thing every morning when he woke up. He reminded himself of his reason for continuing on even though Kate was dead; he couldn't give up until he'd found her murderer. He wasn't certain what would come after that, but right now it didn't really matter. He _would_ find out who killed her, and he _would_ find a way to avenge her murder. There simply wasn't any other option.

And yet he still wasn't any closer to getting his revenge than he had been when she died.

* * *

**Sorry that it was so short, and that Neal didn't make much progress. I really wanted to use more dialogue from **_**Withdrawal**_**, but since the second season isn't done yet, and therefore I don't have a copy of that episode, I don't really have access to that dialogue right now. In the future (once the second season is over and my story has probably gone AU), I might come back and add little bits and pieces.**

**But for now, here it is! For your entertainment... or not, if you don't like it. PLEASE review! You really don't have to, but reviews make me endlessly joyous.**


	4. Eager for Reasons

**I am sorry that you had to wait so long, but I've _never _struggled with a story as much as I struggled with this chapter. I started writing it immediately after I uploaded the last one, and I've been working on it consistently, and it's _still_ taken this long. I'm sorry that there aren't many different scenes, but if there were then it might never have been published, so... I'm sorry that it's so late, but it's finally here.**

**Also, I realize that the talk with Peter about why Neal said he'd basically turned himself in, is now AU. We've already established that I started writing this chapter a while ago, and I like that part enough that I don't really want to change it.**

* * *

_Kate's gone._ At some point, Neal knew, he needed to accept it. It wasn't necessarily that he needed to move on... it was that he couldn't make any progress searching for her murderer when most of him was still couldn't accept that she was actually dead.

_She's gone._

He had promised himself vengeance; he had promised _her_ knowledge. For her, he would find the one responsible, and for him... He didn't know what he would do, yet. He would cross _that _bridge when he got to it, and then burn the bridge behind him. For now, he needed to convince himself that she was dead, so that he could actually start working towards those promises. For now, he needed to let go, just a little.

_She's gone and she can never come back._

And Neal was going to find out why.

* * *

It had taken Neal a while to apologize to Mozzy, and then longer to convince him that he was completely sane, completely controlled; he still wasn't sure if his friend believed it quite yet. But the slightly eccentric man had never been angry – only worried, only concerned. That friendly concern made it much more difficult for Neal to hold onto his mask of steadiness, of mental stability.

"So you think he's looking into who killed Kate in his off hours," Mozzie said slowly. "I sup-pose that's a good thing." He stuttered ever so slightly as Neal looked at him, and Neal lowered his gaze to the apple he was holding, wondering how much his friend had seen in his eyes.

"I want to know what he's found." Neal spoke softly, spinning the apple around in the palm of his hand. He still had to be careful with how he spoke, still had to convince his friend that he wasn't obsessed. He was more diligent; more dedicated to the lie he was living.

"He's trying to protect you," Mozzie pointed out reasonably.

"Oh, come on, Mozz. I don't need protecting." _I need _answers_. If he thinks hiding it from me is going to help me move on then he's sorely mistaken._

"It's only fair. We keep secrets from the suits all the time. Now they have their own. There's a certain universal synchronicity to it all."

Neal turned back to his friend, angry and incredulous at the same time. "Spare me your circle of life crap." He had slipped, had shown a portion of the emotion he was feeling. The pause before he moved to cover himself in a more neutral voice was barely noticeable, but he had no idea if Mozzie had heard it. "What are you writing?"

* * *

"Oh, right; you had a bodyguard."

"His name was Charlie. He practically raised me. He was like a father to me." Diana went quiet, staring at the painting on the wall with a look in her eyes that Neal didn't quite understand.

"What?" he asked softly.

"He died in the line of duty." She looked over at Neal, her lips pursed and her eyes sharp. "Protecting me." She moved towards the bed without looking at him, sitting down on the edge slowly as if she was unsure if it would support her.

Neal followed just as slowly, sitting carefully next to her. "Were you there when it happened?"

"I was." It was a simple statement, calm and open.

Neal took a deep breath, and though he had no intention of talking about it he found himself saying, "My first date with Kate... we conned our way into some rich guy's hotel room, and we ordered the most expensive food they had." He glanced over at her, surprised at how sharply bittersweet it was to confide in someone who understood. "Did you know there's a thousand dollar hamburger?"

"You're joking."

"We ordered five." Diana laughed, and Neal just smiled. "Yeah," he breathed, his voice little more than a whisper. When he spoke again, he wasn't looking at Diana anymore. "And from our window, there was a view of this rundown old bridge." He paused in thought for just a moment, then said directly to Diana, "I'm sure it was a mess up close. But from our angle," He was looking just past her, his eyes distant again. "The way the sun hit it... It was beautiful." He was smiling, just slightly. "And we never wanted to leave that room." He laughed very softly, but his smile faded as he turned back to Diana, his eyes distant even though they were staring directly into hers. "It should have been me on that plane." _Why? Why did I have to drag her into this? And why did I have to hesitate?_

"But it wasn't." Neal looked down. He was staring at the floor, past the floor, and his skin was blistering again. "I know you blame yourself for what happened to Kate - I blame myself for what happened to Charlie - but Charlie wouldn't have wanted me to do that. He'd have wanted me to go on with my life. I didn't know Kate, but I guess she'd want the same thing."

Neal nodded in her direction, then looked back to the floor, still nodding. Diana was right, of course; Neal didn't need her to tell him what Kate would think. But it still didn't make a difference. The guilt was still there, and the anger. He'd only ever completely ignored what Kate wanted twice in his life, but at least this time would be the last.

"Now, do you have a pencil?" Diana said smoothly, reasonably – as if it was part of the same conversation.

"I do." Some of his innate curiosity pushed past the distance in his eyes. "Why?"

"Because there's a painting in this room with nothing behind it." She said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it was.

Neal smiled slowly... and his laugh was soft, but real.

* * *

"Neal, are you ever going to tell me why you said that you basically turned yourself in?"

Neal had to swallow before he could talk. He didn't want to think about this, not now. "Because it was the truth."

"Fine." Peter rolled his eyes. "Are you ever going to tell me what you meant?"

This time, Neal responded immediately, out of habit. "Probably not."

"Oh, so it _was _just defensive bragging."

"No. I–" he paused, frowning for a moment. He'd been talking about Kate too much recently. It made him feel hollow, as if all that was left inside of him were words – his words, his thoughts, were raw and rough from how long he'd kept them quiet, but they sharpened themselves inside of him until he was forced to let them go. "I was planning to propose to Kate, but I didn't want to do it with a stolen ring – or a ring that I bought with stolen money. It just wouldn't feel... _real_. So I started from scratch on a new identity that wasn't even remotely connected to the others. I got a legitimate job, but I wasn't able to move, or run farther, or cover up for myself again."

"Wait, that accountant thing was legitamate?" Peter seemed genuinely surprised, and if Neal hadn't felt so bitter he would have laughed. "I always assumed you were going to pull a con and I just got you first."

He shrugged. "Kate kept saying that we needed to move, needed to disappear again, but I kept asking for just one more day – just _one _more. And then another one, and another one–"

"And then I caught up to you." He seemed almost sorry, his eyes tight with a level of sympathy Neal hadn't expected.

Neal laughed dryly, and his voice cracked. "Kate never knew why. I think she was halfway convinced that I'd gone insane. All the times she visited me I never told her why I hadn't let us keep moving, even though she always asked. I–" he paused for just a moment, not sure if it would hurt more to keep it inside or to say it out loud. "I was hoping that I'd have another chance to..." He trailed off, but he didn't need to finish; he didn't need to say it out loud for Peter to understand.

* * *

Alex hesitated, and pulled something out of her jacket pocket and held it up for him to see. It was a small, golden cherub, no bigger than her thumb. "That's the last piece of the music box." She reached for Neal's hand and put it gently into his palm. The metal was surprisingly cold, and the piece was heavier than he'd expected it to be. "I'm giving up my obsession." She closed his hand carefully around it, looking him in the eyes and making sure he met her gaze.

"You're suggesting I give up mine?" He was surprised to find that he wasn't annoyed at the admonition, but actually amused at the idea.

"Kate's gone. The rest of us are still here." She leaned in slowly to kiss him; quick, but surprisingly gentle. Her lips were soft and warm, and he smiled as she pulled back. Smiling at her... smiling at the insanity of the thought that he could ever give up on Kate. She hesitated, then smiled in response.

"Goodbye, Alex."

She turned slowly, pulling her hair back, and stepped into the car. Neal stood still, with his legs planted firmly apart, frowning as he watched the cab pull away. As he stood still on the sidewalk, alone, he looked down at the cherub, turning it over in his hands. It was still heavy, still cold. The edge of the bottom of the piece was serrated and uneven. He wasn't sure why, but he knew he'd figure it out, and soon.

Neal smiled.

Alex may have meant to help him give up his obsession, but in reality she'd simply brought him one small step closer to his goal. And that step _was_ small, but it was the first step he'd been able to take in a long time.


End file.
